


Shock Horror

by LipstickAndWhiskey (CopperMarigolds)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blind Dean, F/M, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 23:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperMarigolds/pseuds/LipstickAndWhiskey
Summary: Dean comes back from a witch hunt not quite himself. You do your best to help, and hope that it’s enough.





	Shock Horror

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: ‘Caught Up In You’ by 38 Special Requested by @anon on tumblr. I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

(Gif source: [x](http://smartiespn.tumblr.com/post/157317841851/s12-ep-11-regarding-dean))

As you crouch in front of the open passenger door, you look over the man in the bench seat. The man you see is far removed from the usual Dean Winchester you knew. He’s eerily quiet, sitting stiffly as he stares, unseeing, out of the windshield. The impala is parked in the bunker’s garage, but he just sits there, motionless, except for the occasional lethargic blink.

When Sam and Dean came back from their hunt, you expected them to be in one of two moods. The first and most preferred was the giddy excitement of a job well done, beers and pie all around. The second was less desired, the quiet thoughtfulness of a rough hunt.

Right now you would take the quiet over this.

When Sam came in with a frown, you thought for sure that Dean did something stupid as usual. Whether it was a scratch or a gash, you’d always grumbled that he should take better care not to get hurt as you patched him up. It’d become your job after Sam gave up one night since Dean kept giving him hell for the way he was stitching. With you, though, he never complained. You admitted you were far more gentle than strictly necessary, your crush on him making it difficult.

Sam came to you, telling you how despondent Dean was after the witch cursed him. You were more worried than usual. He said the spell should wear off - days, weeks, he wasn’t sure - but that Dean was blind for the moment. When you made your way to the garage, you weren’t sure what to expect - but what you found broke your heart.

He was in shock.

What the hell could’ve happened to send Dean Winchester, of all men, into shock must’ve been truly nightmarish. It couldn’t’ve been just the curse that had him like this.

You reach out to Dean, fingers trailing lightly over his hand before grasping it. He’s a little cold under your touch, barely responding to you.

“Dean?” you ask quietly.

His head jerks a little toward you, a good sign.

“Dean, can you get out of the car for me?”

He nods a little, moving, and you help guide him. You _have_ to, making sure he doesn’t hit his head, but he’s safe and he’s whole. Thank God for little miracles.

You lead him gently into the bunker, making sure to watch his feet so he doesn’t trip, thumbs smoothing over the tops of his hands the whole time. He says nothing, does nothing as you lead him to his room. You aren’t too sure what to do, but the dirt covering him head to toe makes your stomach wobble a little. You gotta get him into a shower.

You root through his drawers after settling him on the bed, searching for comfortable clothes to put him in after the shower. You stop for a moment, hand on a pair of sweatpants as you think logistics. How are you even going to get him into the shower?

You’d have to hold him under the spray, given the state he’s in right now. You’d have to clean him yourself. Your brain stutters over this fact, given your crush on him, and you want to be respectful. You push all the noise to the side, his stiff form on the bed reminding you of what needs to be done.

You snag an extra flannel for yourself, piling into your arms with the other clothes and towels you knew you’d need, then went to Dean’s side.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up - can you stand for me, honey?”

He does, letting you usher him to the communal shower room. You’re glad for the small benches in the stalls as you sit him down again, turning on the water before coming back to stand in front of him. Worry eats at your gut as you slowly peel back his jacket, guiding his face to your tummy to pull it from him. The flannel goes next, and you sit him back again.

“Arms up, please,” you ask, and he does so willingly, letting you pull his tee over his head. Your mouth goes a little dry at the sight of his bare chest, heart pitter-pattering like a jackrabbit at the sight of the dark tattoo and freckles scattered across his skin.

“Let’s get you into the shower, okay?” you ask, briefly cupping his face in your hands, speaking in what you hope is a soothing voice. He doesn’t respond, but he does stand when you touch his upper arms.

You take a deep breath, gathering yourself for this next part.

Trembling fingers reach for his waistband, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding down the zipper, sliding his pants down and letting the heavy material drop to pool around his feet. You drop to a crouch, putting his hand on your shoulder as you pull up each of his legs to step out of his jeans, tossing them into the growing pile of clothes.

You look up and immediately regret it, face level with his boxers, ideas shooting through you faster than you can stop them. You blink hard, willing them away to the dark recesses of your mind, because Dean needs you. He deserves your respect right now, not your lusty thoughts.

You stand, saying a little prayer as you start to pull your own clothes off, heart still beating fast as you stand in your underthings in front of Dean. You try not to overthink as you pull him with you further into the stall. Moving the showerhead and testing the water, you nudge Dean under the spray. Warm, but not _too_ warm, it seems to seep into his bones as his shoulders relax a fraction.

You let your hands run over his face, gently running a washrag over his brows, and his cheekbones, watching as some life comes back to him. He takes a deep breath, his voice shaky as he says your name. It’s wavering and quiet, but it’s the first thing he’s said since his return, and you can’t help the way your heart leaps at the sound of your name on his lips.

“Yeah, Dean. I’m right here.”

He lifts his hands, calloused fingertips finding your hips and pulling you to him. You go willingly, his head dropping and feeling around until it hits your shoulder. He jerks a little in your arms before falling to his knees, holding you as tightly to himself as he can manage. _He’s crying_ , you realize, and you follow him down, kneeling with him on the wet tile.

He’s holding onto you as though you may disappear at any moment, the warm spray of water falling over your huddled forms. You wrap your arms around him tightly, running fingers through his now-damp hair, murmuring sweet nothings as he sobs. Your heart breaks the longer it goes on, and you hold back your own tears at the way he falls apart in your arms.

“You were dead,” he says, voice raspy from all the tears. “I k-kept seeing you die, in my mind. That _witch_ s-spelled me - can’t even fuckin’ s- _see_.”

You shush him. “Dean, I’m okay. I’m right here. I’m _right here_. I’m not going anywhere, you hear me?”

He nods against you, hands still gripping tight. You let your fingertips slide across his scalp, soothing his gasping breaths as he calms. “I’ve got you, Dean. I got you.”

A few quiet moments pass and you come back to your current situation. You grab a bottle of his shampoo, letting the lid click open.

“What’s that?” he asks, gone suddenly still.

“Shampoo. You trust me, right?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever trusted anyone who wasn’t Sam,” he confesses.

You let a smile pull at your lips as his words pull at your heart, taking his head and tipping it back a little.

“Close your eyes. Don’t wanna get suds in them.”

He does so and you lather his hair, soothing circles pressed into his scalp. You feel the tension leak out of him as you go, though his hands never leave you. You talk aimlessly about your day, murmuring about the pie recipe you saw on pinterest, and the random bit of lore about mermaids you’d read recently.

You’re rambling now, and self-consciousness has you pulling inward, afraid that he hates the talking. He seems to know and squeezes your side as you rinse the suds out.

“Keep talking to me, please.”

So you do. The two of you stand again, and the rest of the shower is spent with you aimlessly talking about anything and everything that came to mind while you wash him clean. You talk about what color you’d decided to paint your toes, the way you’d organized the books in your room - even the way you wanted to rearrange your room in the bunker. He’s quiet throughout, hands only leaving your waist as you clean up and dry yourself off.

You help him into his own clothes, then shrug on his flannel that you snagged earlier, leaving your wet underthings to dry by the lockers.

“Let’s get you to bed,” you suggest, slowly leading him through the bunker.

“Wait - what time is it?”

“Uhh,” you reply, glancing at one of the many clocks littering the bunker walls. “It’s midnight.”

He says nothing more as you lead him into his room, turning down the covers and settling him in. “Need anything before I leave?”

He frowns a little, a seeming internal struggle happening as he decides on what he wants to say.

“Can you- could you, ya know, stay? Just for tonight, I mean?”

It’s the fragility in his voice that hurts your heart, and you know you can’t say no. Not with the lost look in his unseeing eyes. Not with the way he’s holding onto your hand like you’re keeping him from drowning.

“Okay,” you say softly, pulling back the covers and turning off the light as he scoots over to make room for you. You don’t expect the way he slides up to you as soon as you climb in, nor the way he leans his head in close, burying it in your neck. His arms wrap around you and you’re floating in contentment, despite wondering about Dean’s sudden tactile nature.

“Hey, Dean?” you ask, breaking the silent darkness of his room.

“Yeah?”

“You okay? I mean, besides the blind thing?”

You cringe, hoping that you don’t come across as crass. He just huffs a short laugh against your skin, sending chills skittering across your neck, and it sends your heart racing once more.

“I’m okay… now.”

He’s quiet for a moment, almost like he’s waiting to see if you really care to know.

“It’s like I’m floating in the ocean at night, and all my other senses are dialed past their max. It’s disorienting. Like I can’t put my feet on solid ground.”

You chew it over in your head for a moment.

“Is there anything you need?”

You feel the pull of his smile against your neck.  
“Just touch. Makes me feel like I’m anchored.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you, so you add, “I just nodded. Uh, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Figured.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right?”

Deep down, you mean that. You mean it past the temporary blindness, past the crappy hunts, past the greasy diner food, and past all the shit in your life. You’re not sure if he picks up on it, but he does hug you a little tighter at your words.

“G’night,” he mumbles, half-asleep.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

_Sleep tight._


End file.
